


Anticipation

by DoreyG



Category: Doctor Faustus - Christopher Marlowe
Genre: Aborted dinner conversations, Abuse of invisibility, Community: kink_bingo, Foreplay, Groping, Invisibility, M/M, Mephistopheles being a smug git, Mephistopheles is /really/ a smug git in this, Or at least foreplay, Public Sex, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 08:09:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Banquets just aren't <i>fun</i> when your demon servant can't turn invisible and inappropriately grope you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anticipation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 'teasing' square of my Kink_Bingo. And went a lot easier when I remembered that Mephistopheles could turn invisible and cause mischief. Set some time in Faustus' wanderings, with _no_ attempt at replicating Marlowe's dialogue because that'd just turn into a game of Simon Says and then both of them would get bored and end up shagging other people.
> 
> ...Or something.

They’re in Greece when Mephistopheles chooses to take his chance. A banquet hall, the guest of some grand prince or lord or sir (they all blend into one indistinct creature after all this time), with the arresting heights of the Peloponnese lurking outside the open arches and a gentle breeze blowing across the sea.

Which is why he doesn’t notice it at first, truly. For it really _could_ be just that wind rustling his hair.

He’s in conversation with some lady, or princess or madam or even mistress, so he misses the first contact. The first gentle ruffle of fingers just over the top of his hair, maybe bending it a little but _certainly_ not enough to be noticed by even him. It is nothing to turn his eyes away for, _nothing_ to start up at and demand answers over. It is just a casual thing, an ordinary thing that _often_ happens in the night.

Which is probably why Mephistopheles takes it as an invitation to _more_.

He _does_ start a little as those fingers wind deeper, _deeper_ , until they’re rubbing at his scalp. But still manages a smile at the slightly concerned looking lady, still manages to (finely, he’s pretty sure that not even the angels could argue there) catch his olive before it tumbles to the floor, still _manages_.

“Are you alright?” She asks, her hand hovering over her collarbone in a faintly _put-on_ sort of worry.

“Yes, don’t worry,” he _smiles_ in reply, even as Mephistopheles (for who _else_ would turn invisible just to tease him in such a way?) _Twists_ the strands of his hair hard between talented fingers “…Never been better, in fact.”

She gives him a _look_.

But he just keeps smiling, as Mephistopheles gives a low and _filthy_ chuckle into his ear, and so she’s forced to acknowledge the perfectness of the evening. Return to her own olives with only the most casual, most _occasional_ attempts at conversation from that point on.

Which is merciful, really: For Mephistopheles just _keeps_ chuckling.

His fingers wind harder, _harder_ , into his hair (until there are almost _tears_ in his eyes) before releasing. Smoothing the ruffled spikes _down_ along with his hands until Mephistopheles is cupping his jaw from behind – gently stroking the same flesh with his fingers that he was with his tongue not twenty four hours ago.

He acts calmly in response, only lifts up his glass and takes another sip of wondrously sweet wine. Feels it slide, so juicily, down his throat as he _presses_ back against the firm (still invisible) body behind him – a spot of revenge that he simply _can’t_ resist.

And does he hear a sharply indrawn breath…?

_Perish_ the thought – as Mephistopheles fingertips move down to his neck proper. Rest and curve and _squeeze_ there in a warning way (like he has any right to warn), a _possessive_ way that clearly speaks of a certain humming desire to throw him down upon the table and have him there in front of all the lords and ladies and sirs and madams and princes and princesses that the world has to offer.

He only takes another calm sip of his wine.

Hears _another_ chuckle. As Mephistopheles’ fingers ease again and slowly continue on their path, teasing over his collarbone to eventually come to a rest on his shoulders. Tapping there gently as he tilts his head back and takes in the view of the night glittering distantly above through one of the ever so intricate skylights.

“Lovely day today,” he comments softly to his still perturbed looking neighbour, as those talented fingers briefly _dig_ , “wasn’t it?”

“…Was it?”

“Didn’t you notice?”

“I don’t go out much,” the woman apologizes, as Mephistopheles gives a _disapproving_ sniff in his ear and slowly runs his nails down his back – somehow, through some demon magic that he hasn’t quite mastered _yet_ , pressing through the layers of cloth until he can only feel temptingly sweet pressure upon his back, “I much prefer the indoor arts: such as reading and sowing and-“

“As I did, once,” he says dismissively, and turns away from her again as those nails reach the bottom of his spine and begin their slow _ascent_.

He isn’t surprised when Mephistopheles plasters himself against his back – just stays there, silent and humming for a moment, before giving another brief tap and starting to slide his fingers down the _front_ of his body. In fact he’s practically expecting it, practically _prepared_. He can settle in his chair, eat another olive, take another sip of his wine as the demon goes ever onwards…

And, yes, he _does_ give a small jump when a wet bite is placed to _that_ side of his neck-

…But, as said before, he’s _prepared_. He covers his jump with a faked almost-drop of his olive, covers his choke with a swift swallowing of the wine and hurriedly jerks his head sideways to halt Mephistopheles before he’s tempted to do _anything_ else. Control is vital, after all, control is _good_ no matter how many barely repressed fantasies of taking him in public there may or may not have been.

He smiles calmly at the _still_ perturbed look of the lady next to him. Takes yet another olive, yet _another_ sip of his drink. Bears the slightly sullen scratch over his nipples as well as he possibly can.

”…Faustus, isn’t it?” _Smiles_. As the lady finally speaks again with a slightly worried line between her eyes.

”John Faustus, yes,” he replies in his most charming tone - making sure to add an extra twinkle to his eye, an extra _glint_ to his smile so the both together are bright enough to trick even the gods, “and you are?”

“Maria Stephanopoulos.”

“Ah, Of _course_ ,” he turns his head calmly sideways to look her in the eye, _pointedly_ ignores the brush of lips over his cheek, “tell me, Maria, what type of books do you like to read?”

And he makes sure to hang on her every word, as she opens her mouth again.

Hang…

_Attempt_ to hang, as Mephistopheles (such a smart boy, man, _demon_ ) realizes that the nipple trick won’t work and grazes his hands _lower_. Lower. _Ever_ lower in such a deliberate, such an _almost_ distracting, way that even all his great powers of determination are near helpless in the face of it.

He makes sure to focus on Maria’s eyes as she talks, keeps ignoring those tickling fingers brushing over his ribs – counting every single one in a deliberately teasing way.

He makes sure to focus on Maria’s lips as she talks, definitely keeps ignoring those cunning fingers spreading over his stomach – somehow managing to find every single faint bite and bruise and scratch left there from the many nights before.

He makes sure to focus on Maria’s _face_ as she _talks_ , most _certainly_ keeps ignoring those knowing fingers dipping lower and lower and-

“Fascinating,” he blurts, to cover the shocked burst of heat as Mephistopheles’ _damned_ fingers dig _right_ into the flesh of his hips, “wonderful! Inspiring!”

…She blinks at him.

He isn’t even sure if he decided to ejaculate (the word is used deliberately, though maybe it should’ve been a _near_ ejaculate for pure accuracy) in one of her natural breaks.

But he can’t, he logically _decides_ not to, worry about that now (Or worry about that ever, as a matter of fact, for he is a higher being now and the worries of the little people are so far beneath him). For Mephistopheles’ fingers are still so firm, so _purposeful_ \- and are sliding slowly inwards like their final destination is set in unmovable stone.

And-

_He_ -

…He still lifts his head, _firmly_ fixes his attention back on the confused Maria with a bright smile that could _still_ fool any gods he chose (even that main one, who sits upon his cloud and refuses to give a single _thing_ even to those noble folk who _deserve_ it down to their blood), “I mean: It is deeply _inspiring_ that your favorite work is Thomas Nashe’s-“

_Ah_!

His words choke off halfway through, splutter away to nothing. His gaze is drawn irresistibly down, _down_ , to settle between his legs: to the space where Mephistopheles, the _visible_ Mephistopheles with his laughing mouth and glittering eyes, is kneeling. Stroking. Bending _in_ with that laughing mouth going hot and those glittering eyes sliding closed and everything aligning _perfectly_ for one suddenly stunned moment…

He shoots up.

Sends an apologetic smile at the expectant, faintly _terrified_ , looking Maria and trusts that his doublet neatly hides any sign of arousal, “my apologies: I’ve just remembered a prior commitment and I really must hurry to him-it-him.”

“…Alright,” she says, now looking faintly _relieved_ , “is him-it-him truly _that_ urgent-?”

“Afraid so!” Mephistopheles has vanished now, thank _all_ the gods, but that arousal is still there – still pulsing and driving and distracting in such a cruel way, “may we meet again, madam Stephanopoulos.”

“Yes, Doctor-“

He’s already moving.

Running.

_Sprinting_.

Until he’s out of the banquet hall, with all those too attentive eyes. Into the cool corridor with its faint breeze and secluded spaces and shadows capable of hiding _any_ debaucheries that he may choose to commit.

Mephistopheles is leaning against a wall: a smile curving his put-on face, his made hair coal-dark in the dim light.

“You _meant_ to do that,” he hisses angrily – catches himself before he can turn into some snake, smoothes his hands _calmly_ over his breeches until he half feels capable of rational thought again “…It was quite rude, Mephistopheles, and I didn’t approve of it.”

“Didn’t you?” The man, _demon_ , only _purrs_ \- uncrossing his legs and leaning back against the wall like the most tempting creature in all of creation.

And…

_Fine_.

He steps forward, and crushes Mephistopheles back against that ever wall in the very _fiercest_ of kisses. For if a corridor in Greece, just outside a grand party that he left at a veritable trot, is where he must _punish_ his servant for his teasing… Then so be it.

…So be it, as Mephistopheles _cackles_ into his mouth.


End file.
